To My Lady Morton, on New-Year's Day, at the Louvre in Paris
Madam! new years may well expect to findWelcome from you, to whom they are so kind;Still as they pass, they court and smile on you,And make your beauty, as themselves, seem new.To the fair Villiers we Dalkeith prefer,And fairest Morton now as much to her;So like the sun's advance your titles show,Which as he rises does the warmer grow.
But thus to style you fair, your sex's praise,Gives you but myrtle, who may challenge bays;From armed foes to bring a royal prize,Shows your brave heart victorious as your eyes.If Judith, marching with the gen'ral's head,Can give us passion when her story's read,What may the living do, which brought away,Though a less bloody, yet a nobler prey;Who from our flaming Troy, with a bold hand,Snatch'd her fair charge, the Princess, like a brand?A brand! preserved to warm some prince's heart,And make whole kingdoms take her brother's part.So Venus, from prevailing Greeks, did shroudThe hope of Rome, and saved him in a cloud.
This gallant act may cancel all our rage,Begin a better, and absolve this age.Dark shades become the portrait of our time;Here weeps Misfortune, and there triumphs Crime!Let him that draws it hide the rest in night;This portion only may endure the light,Where the kind nymph, changing her faultless shape,Becomes unhandsome, handsomely to 'scape,When through the guards, the river, and the sea,Faith, beauty, wit, and courage, made their way.As the brave eagle does with sorrow seeThe forest wasted, and that lofty treeWhich holds her nest about to be o'erthrown,Before the feathers of her young are grown,She will not leave them, nor she cannot stay,But bears them boldly on her wings away;So fled the dame, and o'er the ocean boreHer princely burthen to the Gallic shore.Born in the storms of war, this royal fair,Produced like lightning in tempestuous air,Though now she flies her native isle (less kind,Less safe for her than either sea or wind!)Shall, when the blossom of her beauty's blown,See her great brother on the British throne;Where peace shall smile, and no dispute arise,But which rules most, his sceptre, or her eyes.
Words in this poem
- expect v. t.
- To wait for; to await. [L. expectatum, to look out for, await, expect; ex + out spectare to look at. See Spectacle.]
- princess n.
- A female prince; a woman having sovereign power, or the rank of a prince. [F. princesse. See Prince, and cf. Princesse.]
- faultless a.
- Without fault; not defective or imperfect; free from blemish; free from incorrectness, vice, or offense; perfect; as, a faultless poem.
- unhandsome a.
- Not handsome; not beautiful; ungraceful; not comely or pleasing; plain; homely.
- boldly adv.
- In a bold manner. [AS. bealdlice.]
- dame n.
- A mistress of a family, who is a lady; a womam in authority; especially, a lady. [F. dame, LL. domna, fr. L. domina mistress, lady, fem. of dominus master, ruler, lord; akin to domare to tame, subdue. See Tame, and cf. Dam mother, Dan, Danger]
- isle v. t.
- To cause to become an island, or like an island; to surround or encompass; to island.
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- sceptre n.
- A staff or baton borne by a sovereign, as a ceremonial badge or emblem of authority; a royal mace. [F. sceptre, L. sceptrum, from Gr. shaft. See Shaft, and cf. Scape a stem, shaft.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
To My Lady Morton, on New-Year's Day, at the Louvre in Paris is in the public domain. This text is taken from Poetical Works of Edmund Waller and Sir John Denham, Project Gutenberg ebook #12322; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Edmund Waller, To My Lady Morton, on New-Year's Day, at the Louvre in Paris, in Poetical Works (1645–1668), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #12322, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/waller-denham/to-my-lady-morton-on-new-year-s-day-at-the-louvre-in-paris.html, id L09092.
Form and metre
To My Lady Morton, on New-Year's Day, at the Louvre in Paris is 48 lines in 3 verse paragraphs. It is in rhyming couplets, 96% of the lines: heroic couplets. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 89%). 96% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 10.0 syllables. 10% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in heroic couplets, other poems in iambic pentameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 AABBCCDD findA · kindA · youB · newB · preferC · herC · showD · growD
- 2 AABBCCDDEEFFGG praiseA · baysA · prizeB · eyesB · headC · readC · awayD · preyD · handE · brandE · heartF · partF · shroudG · cloudG
- 3 AABBCCDDEFEEGGFFHHIIJJGGKK rageA · ageA · timeB · crimeB · nightC · lightC · shapeD · scapeD · seaE · wayF · seeE · treeE · o'erthrownG · grownG · stayF · awayF · boreH · shoreH · fairI · airI · kindJ · windJ · blownG · throneG · ariseK · eyesK
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Madam! new years may well expect to find | 10 | /˘····˘/·· |
| Welcome from you, to whom they are so kind; | 10 | /˘········ |
| Still as they pass, they court and smile on you, | 10 | ·········· |
| And make your beauty, as themselves, seem new. | 10 | ···/˘·˘/·· |
| To the fair Villiers we Dalkeith prefer, | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| And fairest Morton now as much to her; | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| So like the sun's advance your titles show, | 10 | ····˘/·/˘· |
| Which as he rises does the warmer grow. | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| But thus to style you fair, your sex's praise, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Gives you but myrtle, who may challenge bays; | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| From armed foes to bring a royal prize, | 10 | ··˘····/˘· |
| Shows your brave heart victorious as your eyes. | 10 | ····˘/˘··· |
| If Judith, marching with the gen'ral's head, | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| Can give us passion when her story's read, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| What may the living do, which brought away, | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| Though a less bloody, yet a nobler prey; | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Who from our flaming Troy, with a bold hand, | 10 | ··//˘····· |
| Snatch'd her fair charge, the Princess, like a brand? | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| A brand! preserved to warm some prince's heart, | 10 | ··˘/···/˘· |
| And make whole kingdoms take her brother's part. | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| So Venus, from prevailing Greeks, did shroud | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘··· |
| The hope of Rome, and saved him in a cloud. | 10 | ·········· |
| This gallant act may cancel all our rage, | 10 | ·/˘··/˘·/· |
| Begin a better, and absolve this age. | 10 | ˘/·/˘·˘/·· |
| Dark shades become the portrait of our time; | 10 | ··˘/·/˘·/· |
| Here weeps Misfortune, and there triumphs Crime! | 10 | ··˘/˘··/˘· |
| Let him that draws it hide the rest in night; | 10 | ·········· |
| This portion only may endure the light, | 10 | ·/˘/˘·˘/·· |
| Where the kind nymph, changing her faultless shape, | 10 | ····/˘·/˘· |
| Becomes unhandsome, handsomely to 'scape, | 10 | ˘/˘/˘/˘˘·· |
| When through the guards, the river, and the sea, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Faith, beauty, wit, and courage, made their way. | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| As the brave eagle does with sorrow see | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| The forest wasted, and that lofty tree | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘· |
| Which holds her nest about to be o'erthrown, | 10 | ·········· |
| Before the feathers of her young are grown, | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| She will not leave them, nor she cannot stay, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| But bears them boldly on her wings away; | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| So fled the dame, and o'er the ocean bore | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Her princely burthen to the Gallic shore. | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘· |
| Born in the storms of war, this royal fair, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Produced like lightning in tempestuous air, | 10 | ˘/·/˘··/˘· |
| Though now she flies her native isle (less kind, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Less safe for her than either sea or wind!) | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Shall, when the blossom of her beauty's blown, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| See her great brother on the British throne; | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Where peace shall smile, and no dispute arise, | 10 | ······˘/˘/ |
| But which rules most, his sceptre, or her eyes. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
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